rose to collect the necessary items and found herself drawn to her mother’s room. When was the last time she’d been in there?
Stepping cautiously inside, Sarah looked around the room, at its austerity. The single bed, neat as a matchbox.
The walls, white, unadorned. A pine night table next to the bed. White curtains on the window. A small veneered dresser with round wooden knobs. A metal rod behind the door displaying a handful of dowdy dresses. No wonder her mother had no will, she thought. She’d divested herself of earthly trappings, like she was expecting to die any minute.
Beneath the bed was a cardboard box with a lid, as though the bed had laid an egg in its own image. Sarah reached in and pulled the box out. It was filled with papers and old cards. Picking up a card from the top, she read the inscription: “To a Dear Mother.” On the inside, beneath a gold-lettered poem, was John’s handwriting.
“Have a good one, Mum!”
There were cards for Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day—all from John. The dutiful son. There were letters, too, and short notes.
I’ll try to make it for Thanksgiving. Save some bird for me. John.
Interspersed among the cards were receipts for things: some cans of paint, a pair of shoes, a book. And then a larger receipt, folded. Sarah opened it and looked at the letterhead at the top. “Fine Funerals.” She read the description, the details in meticulous handwritten script.
“Basic Funeral Package: Blue Horizons, pine with brass accents. Cremation and burial service. Newspaper announcement—free.”
The whole thing, with announcement gratuity, had set her mother back $3,500. Sarah folded the receipt and placed it to one side of the box.
She picked up a postcard:
The Three Fates.
The picture on the front showed an etching of three women sitting side by side, holding a skein of wool. The woman in the middle held shears poised, ready to cut the yarn. There was something eerily calculating about the women, with their dispassionate faces. On the back of the card was a quotation, written in pencil:
“Who knows but life be that which men call death,and death what men call life?”
The handwriting unfamiliar. What was this doing in her mother’s things? It seemed out of place among the Christmas cards and scraps of old paper. Sarah set the postcard aside, thinking it was somehow appropriate for the ritual, even though it wasn’t on the list.
Digging through the papers, Sarah began looking for something—anything—with her name on it. Hadn’t she given her mother cards over the years? When she reached the bottom of the box, she felt oddly disappointed. Why had her mother kept letters from John but not from her? There was no denying that they didn’t get along. But to be so final, so dismissive … Sarah found it upsetting. It was as if she were being slowly erased. “What do you expect?” she muttered, piling the papers back in the box, careful to place the cards she had found first at the top. She didn’t want her mother to know she had been snooping.
Sliding the box to its spot under the bed, Sarah picked up the postcard of the three women and moved into the kitchen to collect the rest of the things she would need. But as she reached to open a drawer, a wave of dizziness set her back on her heels.
He’s doing this to me,
she thought, grasping the counter in alarm, then remembering that she had only had coffee with Donna earlier. Coffee and Advil. She would eat after the ritual, she promised herself as the dizzy spell passed.
The pin was easy to find, but there were no tea-lights in the kitchen. There were several half-burned white tapers, though, and a box of matches. In place of a candlestick an empty green wine bottle from under the sink would have to do. Sarah pushed the snub end of a taper into the wine bottle, the wax curling over the lip like a strip of old cheese. The apple she found in the fridge, its skin slightly puckered. Shechecked her list: “An altar
Stepping cautiously inside, Sarah looked around the room, at its austerity. The single bed, neat as a matchbox.
The walls, white, unadorned. A pine night table next to the bed. White curtains on the window. A small veneered dresser with round wooden knobs. A metal rod behind the door displaying a handful of dowdy dresses. No wonder her mother had no will, she thought. She’d divested herself of earthly trappings, like she was expecting to die any minute.
Beneath the bed was a cardboard box with a lid, as though the bed had laid an egg in its own image. Sarah reached in and pulled the box out. It was filled with papers and old cards. Picking up a card from the top, she read the inscription: “To a Dear Mother.” On the inside, beneath a gold-lettered poem, was John’s handwriting.
“Have a good one, Mum!”
There were cards for Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day—all from John. The dutiful son. There were letters, too, and short notes.
I’ll try to make it for Thanksgiving. Save some bird for me. John.
Interspersed among the cards were receipts for things: some cans of paint, a pair of shoes, a book. And then a larger receipt, folded. Sarah opened it and looked at the letterhead at the top. “Fine Funerals.” She read the description, the details in meticulous handwritten script.
“Basic Funeral Package: Blue Horizons, pine with brass accents. Cremation and burial service. Newspaper announcement—free.”
The whole thing, with announcement gratuity, had set her mother back $3,500. Sarah folded the receipt and placed it to one side of the box.
She picked up a postcard:
The Three Fates.
The picture on the front showed an etching of three women sitting side by side, holding a skein of wool. The woman in the middle held shears poised, ready to cut the yarn. There was something eerily calculating about the women, with their dispassionate faces. On the back of the card was a quotation, written in pencil:
“Who knows but life be that which men call death,and death what men call life?”
The handwriting unfamiliar. What was this doing in her mother’s things? It seemed out of place among the Christmas cards and scraps of old paper. Sarah set the postcard aside, thinking it was somehow appropriate for the ritual, even though it wasn’t on the list.
Digging through the papers, Sarah began looking for something—anything—with her name on it. Hadn’t she given her mother cards over the years? When she reached the bottom of the box, she felt oddly disappointed. Why had her mother kept letters from John but not from her? There was no denying that they didn’t get along. But to be so final, so dismissive … Sarah found it upsetting. It was as if she were being slowly erased. “What do you expect?” she muttered, piling the papers back in the box, careful to place the cards she had found first at the top. She didn’t want her mother to know she had been snooping.
Sliding the box to its spot under the bed, Sarah picked up the postcard of the three women and moved into the kitchen to collect the rest of the things she would need. But as she reached to open a drawer, a wave of dizziness set her back on her heels.
He’s doing this to me,
she thought, grasping the counter in alarm, then remembering that she had only had coffee with Donna earlier. Coffee and Advil. She would eat after the ritual, she promised herself as the dizzy spell passed.
The pin was easy to find, but there were no tea-lights in the kitchen. There were several half-burned white tapers, though, and a box of matches. In place of a candlestick an empty green wine bottle from under the sink would have to do. Sarah pushed the snub end of a taper into the wine bottle, the wax curling over the lip like a strip of old cheese. The apple she found in the fridge, its skin slightly puckered. Shechecked her list: “An altar
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